


Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night

by heartratemonitor



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Other, POV Second Person, monster lover's delight, reversed ending, you fxxx the bird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 10:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19868188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartratemonitor/pseuds/heartratemonitor
Summary: In the hoary light, you examine him closer. There’s still soft flesh in certain parts, contrasted by the dull gloss of feathers. You wonder if he can fly. You wonder how brightly he would gleam in the sunlight.





	Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night

It is late into the night of your arrival. You can’t say you’re partial to Salty Bitters, but you humor him a glass. Julian is a stark gash of shadow and feathers, nursing drink after drink, watching you at the corner of his eye as though you were a vapor dream, bound to dissipate. He doesn’t seem inclined to touch you out of shame from the mountains of both your failures. This resolution is… awfully anticlimactic, to say the least. You find one of the refilling tankards, and in a desperate attempt to gather some sort of control, turn the entire damn thing to water.

He laughs. The sound like an ugly ghost, mouth sobering into something like awe. “It’s really you.”

“I.. I’m going to have some of this,” you stammer, taking both your mugs. “Want some?”

“Please.”

You both drink. You think you’re being baptized in reverse. Julian’s eyes never fail to leave your body, and neither do yours on his. It is taller than you remember, and stranger too. The form is a testament to love, you think- you inch forward to cup his face he shuts his eyes.

“Don’t look at me,” he starts, but makes no motion to turn you away.

You take his free wrist. The claws could eviscerate you whole, and would be useful for traveling. You hold the delicate skin on its underside to your lips, and he manages a sigh. He’s done this for you. He’s destroyed himself for you- no, not destroyed. In the hoary light, you examine him closer. There’s still soft flesh in certain parts, contrasted by the dull gloss of feathers. You wonder if he can fly. You wonder how brightly he would gleam in the sunlight.

“You’re beautiful,” you say.

Julian looks at you in search for malice and trickery, and bursts into peals of laughter. “Oh goodness, dear, is one Salty Bitter enough to ruin you? You’re not well.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh.” He anxiously picks at his talons. “I’m. I’m not sure what to say to that.”

You pull forward in for a kiss. His hands gingerly grasp your waist, as though handling frail parchment, or a ghost. The touch is delicate but his lips are nothing but, hungry and needy and gasping for you as though you were air and he was drowning. Maybe he is drowning, you think, as you rest your hands on his powerful shoulders. You brush against his lower half and you find his growing need against the fabric of your pants, wanting.

You part for a moment to catch your breath. Your options are the floor or one of the bar tables, and his weight may break the latter, so you settle on the former, guiding him to lay on his back on the cleanest surface you can manage. He smiles wryly, despite himself, as you hurry out of your garments and boots. You mount slowly with a gulp after some preparation. That’s bigger than you remember, too.

Julian watches you with a parted mouth as you grind, fully sheathed. It’s a slow, gradual pace filled with hope and fear; he senses your nerves and plays with your hair. Your hands roam his body with careful consideration; the strong, undulating forms of his chest, the new softness of the feathers in his arms. A finger to run down the aquiline length of his nose. Your lips to his forehead as you bob up and down.

He starts to sob. You stop for a moment.

“Are you alright? Do you not want this?”

“I do,” he says, as though he is being gutted. “How could you still want me?”

Your mouth, for his tears, brushing against them, willing them away. As you take another kiss from him, he holds you firm, as though he understands your answer. Julian rises from the floor to meet you. You all but melt in his lap as he guides you into the rhythm with his hands, the waves of pleasure growing stronger with his firm insistence.

There’s tears and salt at the back of your mouth. You can’t help yourself. Julian rests his head in the crook of your neck and openly sobs, and sobs, and sobs, and you cry along with him, the release of anguish and pleasure like a barrier you waited so long to break. You’re both desperate now, movements like frightened monsters trapped in an embrace. Your mouths lock in a kiss. The thrusts grow more erratic. You feel like a lamb to the slaughter in a pleasant sort of way, like you’ll die at the climax of it all.

Wouldn’t that be nice, you think, as stars dance at the back of your eyes as you release, but you are still alive, slick with sweat and want and Julian’s body. You wait patiently, nerves alight with the tingle of being too raw, over sensitive. Julian comes shortly after, and the both of you collapse in a tangle of boneless exhaustion.

There is stillness in the bar, but it is lighter, and calmer, as though a weight had been eased by your intimacy. Julian props himself up to a seated position, and plants a kiss on your shoulder. He’s different now, but also the same. You follow after him, catching your breath.

“I have half a mind to turn some of these tables into a bathtub,” you announce to him.

“Goodness, please do.”

You don’t bother with clothes as you transmute and transform; the shame is long gone. It’s the ugliest bathtub you’ve ever seen, but it will suffice. You raid the shelves for something to use- the bar has chamomile, and it should perfume the water enough to get rid of some of the stink. The water is last, sourced from countless refilling skeins. With far too much eagerness, you take some clean rags and hop in with Julian.

He stares at you mutely as you scrub layers from your journey off yourself, the silence interspersed by quiet breaths. A claw hesitantly touches new scars on your body. You smile at him, like a band-aid over a stab wound.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, and you kiss him again.

“Don’t.” You take one of the rags and soak it into the water, wiping at his face and shoulders. He allows you, never averting his eyes, offering you little sighs of pleasure all the while. It’s still him, after all.

* * *

Two days later, you convince him to leave with you, in search of the others. He tears apart monsters like fine paper; a ferocity he once reserved for self loathing. You can’t help but feel a little pride.

“You’re beautiful,” you say again one day, and he does not protest.


End file.
